Hell Sheathing
Backstory Martin Lee Browning was just your average McDonald’s employee who would solemnly take your order no matter how obese you were. But this all changed one day when a mysterious individual approached him as he was sitting down during his lunch break. Now here is a transcript of their conversation… Mysterious Individual, staring vacantly at his acquaintance’s Quarter-Pounder with cheese: Hello, Martin. I knew you’d be here. Martin, slightly confused: Yea…that’s uh, that me. Listen I’m on a break right now, but there is somebody at the registers who will gladly— Mysterious Individual: I already ate. Martin: Well would you let me eat in peace? Mysterious Individual, handing Martin a piece of paper: As soon as I know you’ve finished reading this… Martin, reading thoroughly: Uh, it just says “Hell Sheathing”. Mysterious Individual: Alrighty, do you know what it means? Martin: No. I actually don’t. Mysterious Individual: Oh, I figured you would. Martin: That’s a real shame, now could you go bother someone with higher tolerance? Mysterious Individual: Of course, as soon as I give you my name. Martin, questioning the significance of this man’s name: What is it? Mysterious Individual: Salamanderman. Martin: Nice. Salamanderman: ‘Aight, I’ma head out. Nice meeting you, Martin. Martin: Hold up, how did you know my name? Salamanderman: Nametag. Martin: I don’t have a nametag. Salamanderman, before hastily bounding out the door: Ok bai. Personality So yea. Martin was left to wonder what the hell he had gotten himself into, but quickly forgot about it as the day went on. Soon enough, his shift ended, and he hopped on the bus leading home. He was the only one on the bus aside from the driver, at least, that’s what he thought. As the bus stopped near a hotel, a man in a clown costume withdrew from the seat behind Martin which he absolutely swore was empty. Right before the man in the clown costume departed from the vehicle he turned to Martin and said, “Watch out for Hell Sheathing. You never know who has it.” Martin wasn’t feeling so good now. Meanwhile, Salamanderman was looking for a place to sleep. It was 10:00 AM on a freezingly cold Winter’s night, and all the homeless shelters were filled to the brim. Just moments later, he found a place to lay his sleeping mat, just under a tree in a park square. The least the branches could do was keep a bit of snow from falling on him as he slept. He set down his cardboard sign and whipped out his cellphone (because homeless people can have cellphones) to see if there was a signal. With one bar showing, Salamanderman grinned. Now he could listen to Serbian Patriotic music as he drifted off into his land of dreams. Sure, the battery might die, but surely that Martin fellow he met earlier that day would let him into the restraunt and charge it. And so, he went with the flow, zipping up his jacket and getting comfy on the sleeping mat. And so, he closed his eyes as the phone emitted its foreign propagandic lyrics. But then something terrible happened. The lovely voice of a Serbian combatant was replaced with an annoying ringtone. Salamanderman angrily grabbed the device and answered the phone, entering the inconvenient conversation. Here is yet another transcript… Salamanderman, in a stereotypical Jamaican accent he uses when he is annoyed: Ugh, wadda you want man? Caller: Hello my name is Kyle from the technical department, and we have reason to believe your computer has a virus, mkay? Salamanderman, deeply enraged: Alright man, you listen to me. Okay, I don’t have a computer. I literally don’t have a computer. Kyle, following a long pause: So you’re saying you aren’t near your computer at the moment? Salamanderman: Did your father penetrate your ears when you were little man? I said I don’t have one! Now don’t call me. Kyle, following an even longer pause: Sir I do not understand what you are— Salamanderman: Don’t make me shove a Glock up your rectum and pull the trigger man! I swear to God I will reach whatever boiler room you are calling from and shoot you. Do you understand what I am saying, Kyle? Kyle: Sir you are talking way too fast I— Salamnderman decided it would be best to hang up. You’d think that would be the last of it, especially since you wouldn’t expect a scammer to call back. Unfortunately for Salamnderman, some tech support frauds exhibit different behaviors, especially ones like Kyle who don’t take to kindly to being dressed down in such a manner. And so… PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES Salamanderman, his blood boiling PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES more than ever, snatches his cellphone up PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES once more to avoid such a disruption in the near PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES future PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHONE NOISES PHO— Salamanderman, desperate to end this once and for all: ‘Aight ya little moon cricket, I told you to fu— Kyle, possessing a British accent all of the sudden: Be aware, dear sir… Hell Sheathing can be very quarrelsome at night. Do take care, and don’t sip your tea too harshly. Salamanderman: Nani? And with that, Kyle hung up. Never to be heard from again. And as for Salamnderman, well, let’s just say he was mildly traumatized to the point where he couldn’t even sleep. Good times. Appearance Site 28|Date: ///-///-///|Sector 5 Files B-40 We have assigned Dr. Fredrick (Researcher Class 4) to interveiw site 28’s newly contained anomaly, SCP-4005. The overveiw we have provided within this file will be heavily redacted following the relocation of this facility. Clearance Level: 4|Item#4005|Object Class: Keter SCP-4005’s looks most appropriately relate to a large waterskin (or perhaps a potato sack we have no clue) with humanoid arms and legs sticking from either side of its “body”. The ability it possesses creates an illusion that will affect anyone within 100 feet of where it stands. This illusion comes as an otherworldly feeling deep within the victim’s bladder that makes them think they have to piss really badly even when it isn’t necessary. And yes that’s pretty much all we can tell you. '' The following documentation was written to replace an audio file that has been destroyed under mysterious circumstances. This information comes from one of the many facilities constructed by an organization known as SCP, and if you don’t know what that is, I hope the cave you’ve been living in collapses and you get crushed to death. Now… ''DrF: Hello SCP-4005. How are you doing today? 4005: It is day? DrF: Why yes, the sun is shining quite brightly as we speak. 4005: If only I could see it. DrF: I’m sure if you aren’t as “Keter” as they say you are, things will get much better for you. 4005: Are you telling me there is no redemption from decapitating one personnel member? DrF: Eh, we’ll get to that later. What we have for you is series of questions that you are required to answer. 4005: And if I don’t comply? DrF: Consequences, my friend. Consequences. 4005: ‘Aight. Get on with it. DrF: Well then, lets get straight to the point: Where do you come from? 4005: Factory. DrF? Factory, I’m not sure I follow--'' ''4005: God, you humans are always wanting the details… is an arms-manufacturing industry more specific? DrF: What? So you are saying you were created there? 4005: Well, I certainly don’t look like I come from mammals. DrF: Fair enough, do you have any idea how you were created? 4005: No lol. DrF: Did you just use a media-stationed acronym? 4005: Did you just question me mortal? DrF: Okay buster, here’s what ‘boutta go down— 4005: Say, Fredrick, you look like you need to use the bathroom. DrF: I’m sorry, what? 4005: You look like you’ve been holding it in for quite a while, Fredrick. DrF: What the…what are you doing? Wait, no. No. Oh God… 4005: Poor Fredrick, I think you need a potty break. DrF: MTF, I need the MTF in here immediately! 4005: I think they’re scurrying to the lavatories to, Fredrick. Why don’t you join them? DrF: You son of the bitch, I told you we were going to kill you if you did this! 4005: You can’t touch me while you’re in the bathroom, Fredrick. DrF: I’ll tell you right now, I would never fall for…oh shit… 4005: Gee Fredrick, I think I can hear the urine sloshing within your bladder right now. DrF: Oh you don’t hear any— 4005: I think you hear it as well. It sounds like there is a lot down there, Fredrick. '' ''DrF: Oh no. Oh God…must…resist… 4005: Well Fredrick, when you gotta go, you gotta go. DrF: Its…not…real… 4005: I really think you should— DrF: I can’t take it anymore; I’m going to burst! Just stay right there! 4005: oKAy, just don’t leave the door open because you wouldn’t want a containment—oh, he’s gone already. Welp, who can resist walking through an open door? Lol. ''-end of recording-'' SCP-4005 was surprised how empty and quite the halls of sector 5 were. He must’ve really done a number on the personnel’s brains. He could hear the cries of agony as he passed the bathrooms. Soon enough, he made is way outside. And he finally saw how bright the day really was. Fredrick was right. But SCP-4005 couldn’t stay and stare at the sun any longer than he could stay in site 28. He had a destiny to fulfill. A goal to reach. A target to eliminate. “I’m going to destroy Hell Sheathing, even if it’s the last thing I do.” Facts After months of hacking, recording, and secretive speaking, the CIA has finally gathered all the people/entities with possibly even the slightest shred of evidence that Hell Sheathing exists. We now introduce you to Slippery Sam. A clown who had escaped from the circus long ago. He wandered from place to place, similar to the fashion of Salamanderman. But he wasn’t homeless. He had a nice home located out in the woods, and even had a lovely wife. But sometimes he just wished he had more. But hey, nobody cares about some unthankful makeup-addict. And this he knew very well. He hardly even cared, because he didn’t even know what he wanted. All he could do was stumble along the streets, beer in hand, and speak utter nonsense. As he passed by pedestrians who were just minding their own business, trying to get across the street, he would say things like, “Watch out for Hell Sheathing.” Or “Hell Sheathing is coming for you.” Or even, “I hope you get a dingleberry so entangled within your asshairs that you have to get a barber to extract it.” And so on. This continued as he hopped on one bus to another, one subway station to the next. But all of the sudden, an officer stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder and turning the depressed clown around. Officer: You alright, sir? Slippery Sam, drunk and lacking in brains: No, I’m far from alright. Hell Sheathing is going to condemn me. Officer, looking down at the bottle: Hell Sheathing? Buddy, I think your drunk. Slippery Sam: Yea. *burping noises* Yea, I’m drunk. It’s all good. Officer: No, actually its not. I’ve been receiving reports of your unlawful behavior. I really think you should put down the bottle and come with me. Slippery Sam: Well, you’re going to have to arrest me because I don’t think I have the energy to go anywhere. Officer, whipping out some standard cuffs: Oh, uh…okay. So one thing led to another, and now the officer whose name is unimportant drives Slipper Sam to the police station. Good times. As he sat there in his temporary cell, he began to contemplate on the meaning of life. Why am I here? Just to rot? I mean—do the gods above really find this entertaining? Like…what is my point? You know? They place us on this planet and there is one half of us that thinks we were meant to cultivate it and then there is the other half that just believes its too good to be true…like what the frick? Are we even supposed to know? Were we supposed to figure it out by now? Like…oh shit…I’ma ‘bout to throw up. And with that, Slippery Sam puked up all his pointless thoughts, as well as his bodily fluids. When he was finished, he thought about licking up the vomit because it didn’t belong on the floor by the looks of it. But then he heard gunshots. Suddenly he saw an officer run in front of the cell, attempting to unlock it. He was saying, “Sir, were being shot at but don’t worry, my pals got it under controll! Now I need you to come with—” Unfortunately for this unimportant officer, a bullet ended up flying directly through his chest and he fell to the ground with a thud. As his body stiffened on the ground, Slippery Sam could see a figure holding an average looking sports rifle. The figure put a few more rounds into the dead officer, just for safe measures. The clown, still very drunk, would’ve cared less about the anonymous gunman and said to him, “What do you want man? W-what ya doin’ here? Wha…oh I think I’m going to throw up again.” The gunman stared vacantly as Sam disposed of the bile from his sickened guts. When he was done puking, the clown looked up to the stranger and said, “Hey, what type of gun is that? Just wondering.” “That doesn’t matter,” Said the figure, dropping the firearm next to the corpse and lifting the hood from his head, revealing he was none other than Martin Lee Browning, “What matters is the lives that need saving. Are you with me?” “Eh, naw. I’m drunk. I can hardly process what you’re sayin’.” “You literally just—” The clown waved his hand wearily. “Now, now, pal. I aint’ in the mood for your prophecy or whatever it is you have instore for me. I just finished thinking through some deep-ass shit. As you can see, I’m useless to your motives. And you may or may not stand trial for someone you just wasted ammo for. So you better get out of here before more of your ‘advesaries’ come. I have no clue what you expected from me, but we probably could’ve had a good time murdering innocent lives if I hadn’t come to a revelation mere seconds before you came to this dump. I’m sorry but I really can’t—” Martin got tired of this utter nonsense and shot him right then and there. Well that didn’t go well. Anyways, Martin made his way out of police station, pursued by the sounds of sirens. He thought what he was doing was cool, but without the clown who he expected would help him solve everything, he was stuck in the same pit of questions that had haunted him ever since he met that “Salamanderman” individual. Who is Hell Sheathing? Where is Hell Sheathing? Why is Hell Sheathing? Why are my nipples shaped like swastikas? What is Hell Sheathing? How is Hell Sheathing? Qoutes soon to unfold Category:Work In Progress Category:Based on Real Life Category:Mentally Ill Category:Entry